The Third Musketeer
by LilLaufeyson
Summary: As she turned her head to stare back at John, he couldn't remember when she had been more beautiful. "Hello John."
1. Prologue

"And that's all there is to it." Cameras clicked away, all bright flashing lights and shuttering lenses. Reporters and journalists shoved each other, shouting out questions they demanded must be answered, lest they not satisfy their editors. This could be their career building scoop, the one column that paved their way in the world of their trade. John Watson, however, was quickly getting annoyed. He'd been standing there for a good majority of an hour, smiling politely as the questions kept coming. His companion was helping none in stopping the noise.

Though he shouldn't be surprised. It had been about two years since Sherlock Holmes could play it up and be, well, Sherlock Holmes. And being Sherlock Holmes meant being a bloody show-off. Boy, was he really laying into it, leaving no little detail behind as he described the case.

They had just breached the topic of his suicide –_for the third bloody time _– when John had finally interjected. He had a numb leg, a nearly blinded sight – thank you cameras – and friends just upstairs to celebrate his engagement. He'd be damned if they'd put off that expensive champagne a moment longer.

Pulling a wide fake smile, John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him up the steps of 221 Baker Street. _Home, _they both corrected in their minds, though one no longer lived there and the other had only just returned. It still was, and always would be, home for them. John slammed the door shut behind them and turned to Sherlock, both men now standing in the little hallway at the base of the stairs that led up to 221B. John's face was stern, the way it always was when Sherlock had done something a bit not good; Sherlock's was one of pure confusion, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion. They only managed to keep their masks up for a few moments, before promptly bursting into giggles.

'Chuckles,' John reminded himself. They were chuckling, as men did. The mere thought sent him into another round of hysterics which Sherlock followed without question. As both men stood there in a fit, they let themselves become immersed in their memories. Memories of the countless times before when they stood here, laughing breathlessly at the amazing feat they'd accomplished together. Whether it be coming home after days of no sleep, their laughter bordering on delirious as they revealed in another solved case, or as they took refuge from a chase, as they had on their first night of friendship; they always seemed to find themselves here. It was easy and routine, as if they'd been doing it all their lives. Sherlock's deep baritone drowning out all, but John slightly higher _hehehe_'s, their sounds mingling as it always did. Or so it seemed on the surface. It only took a few moments to realize that the sound was slightly off. It took even less for the pair to pinpoint what exactly it was, and by that time the laugh had ceased and their smiles had gone.

"How do we fix this?"

John's question was followed by absolute silence in the little hallway at the foot of 221B. Upstairs, their friends – family – could be heard moving about, laughing and celebrating as the men below gave in to what they both had been putting off. There now, with both of them staring at the banister of the staircase, they could almost imagine it. The body of a young woman, smaller than John in height and build, pale as moonlight with a smile that shined brighter than the sun, leaned heavily against that banister. Brown eyes came to focus that sparkled with something akin to mischief; faded freckles splattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks above light pink lips that were pulled into a wide open mouth grin. Wild ginger hair spilled down her sweatshirt covered shoulders in loose curls and rested against her chest. If they tried hard enough, they could hear the laugh that tumbled out of her mouth as she gasped for breath. A low chuckle followed by a small high pitched shriek, the noise she made as she took in a breath, that most people found annoying and that they found sounded like home.

"Everything," Sherlock's voice pulled John out of reverie. His eyes snapped to meet those of his companion, but Sherlock's hadn't strayed from the railing.

"To fix this," He clarified. "We do _everything._"

* * *

" – And you're sure everything's all set?"

"_Yes. The plane is one of my own personal. The staff is my own. The weather is going to be clear and sunny, though I know how much you detest that. I had my staff stock the house with your preferred meals. I've got the spare bedroom prepared for you. It will all be f –_"

"But what if they don't need me home, Mycroft?"

"_Oh believe me, my dear. They've never needed you more._"


	2. Her

John's day began as any other. Breakfast and dressed before seven, then out the door and off to the surgery. Patient after patient until lunch; lunch with Mary, answer Sherlock's texts then back to work. All in all, it was a pretty normal day in John's book. All had been, surprisingly, fairly normal since his best friend had managed to let John in on his secret: he didn't actually commit suicide. Well, as normal as one could achieve being so close to the World's Only Consulting Detective. Which is why, John supposes, he really should have known. In all honesty, he was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. Two years of no Sherlock meant almost two years of no Mycroft, for which he was grateful. But no that Sherlock was back, a visit to Mycroft was bound to happen.

So as John was leaving the surgery after a long, and frankly boring, day at the surgery, and saw a sleek black car parked next to the curb, he really shouldn't have been surprised.

"My god, really? Today. Of all days, today." John ranted all the way to the car, and as he slammed the door shut behind him, he muttered a curse at his luck. He settled himself in the seat properly, buckling his belt, before taking in his surroundings. Sitting directly across from him was the same woman from all those years ago who picked him up at Mycroft's request then as she did now. Her name was Athena or something, but John couldn't be bothered to remember. It wasn't her real one anyhow.

Deciding he wasn't going to embarrass himself this time around by attempting conversation with her – and why would he with a lovely fiancé at home – he pulled out his phone and sent out two texts.

Be home late. Got picked up by Mycroft. JW

Any reason why your brother would want me this time? JW

By the time the car had stopped,John had received a response from Mary telling him to be careful and that she loved him, but nothing from Sherlock. That wasn't exactly out of the ordinary so John slipped him phone back into his pocket and stepped out of the vehicle. What he saw surprised him a great deal.

Instead of being brought to an old abandoned building or a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, John stood at the base of a small flight of steps. The steps led to the front door of a ridiculously expensive looking house. The rest of the street was filled with the same type of house, built so close together that their sides touched, on either side of the street. A rich neighborhood of families, from what John could gather. Why the hell would Mycroft own a house here?

As if on cue with his thoughts, John's phone rang. Without taking his eyes off the building in front of him to check his phones caller-ID, he answered. "Yeah, hello Mycroft, what's going on?"

"_Do come in John, we have much to discuss and I have other things that require will require my attention soon._"

The phone clicked, indicating that Mycroft had hung up. Still unsure, John again returned the phone to his pocket and made his way to the door. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, internally debating on whether to knock on the door or not, before the door swung open. Smiling warmly at him from inside, an older woman beckoned him inside. The inside looked as any typical family-of-however-many house would be expected to look. Straight ahead was divided into a hallway on the left that led deeper into the house and a staircase on the right that led up, to where John could not see. To the left, John could see a living room, complete with chairs, a fireplace and a telly. To the right, a dining room with a doorway into what John assumed was the kitchen.

"Do come inside dear, you're letting in the cold." John did as she said, now thoroughly confused as to what exactly was happening. The woman had a homely feel to her, not unlike that of John's own Mrs. Hudson. Instead of comforting him as it should have, it only worried John more. Mycroft Holmes, employing a kind old woman, to do what exactly in a normal-family type home. This was the epitome of unusual cases and he'd once fought off a demon hound.

"Alright, dear? Perhaps a cup of tea while we wait for Mr. Holmes?" She smiled at him and John was once again reminded of Mrs. Hudson.

"No, thank you. He will be quite fine." Mycroft appeared at the top of the stairs, startling John. But it wasn't his sudden appearance that had John worried. It was the fact the he was missing his coat. His vest, button up and tie were all slightly less fancy than normal and John wondered for a brief moment as to what twilight zone he'd wondered into.

"Quickly, if you do please Dr. Watson, we have a schedule to keep to." Mycroft smiled that smile of his. Nothing genuine, just a stretch of the skin around his lips that barely veiled a warning that John had better hurry.

"Ok." John simply nodded – really what else could you do – to the houselady and made his way up the stairs to follow the eldest Holmes brother.

Mycroft watched as John came, observing as the Holmes' always did. His lips pulled slightly, this time in a real display of amusement. Mycroft began to note things about John's posture such as the fact that he unconsciously straightened his back and balled his hands into fists at his sides. He kept his head held high, the soldier within him coming forth in an unnoticed response to John not understanding the admittedly strange situation. _Always the soldier then. _Then just for fun – or to waste time – Mycroft noted several other unimportant things about the man that approached him. '_Annoyance at his canceled dinner plans with Mary, a slight limp from sitting down most of the day – he's had mostly boring patients that he's getting tired of then – worry over the wedding – though its considerably far away, probably because he wants things to be perfect for his bride to be how lovely – and a tad extra exhaustion, Mary kept him up late last night for – _

"Right this way." Mycroft smiled another fake one and led John down another hallway and through a door on his left. After that it was series of confusing hallways, staircases and doorways before John finally noticed Mycroft slowing down. He stopped at the end of the hallway they were on, in front of a thick oak door. Without a word to John, Mycroft opened the door. The room was built to be a study, with bookcases lining all the walls except the one opposite the door. That particular wall housed four giant windows, with benches placed beneath them so that one may enjoy the view or the breeze should the fancy strike them. The furniture that belonged to the room was typical for a study. A big desk with matching chair, cluttered with paper work, a coffee mug and a laptop. There was a lounge chair and two armchairs placed expertly around a coffee table across the room from the desk.

None of this, however, registered in the mind of John Watson. He took absolutely nothing in, for the moment Mycroft stopped blocking his sight did his eyes fixate on the being that had already inhabited the room. John then got that look on his face; that one look that can't be tethered to any one emotion. His eyes glistened as if they were filled with tears – and if they were, no one mentioned it – and his lips twisted, though his throat tightened as he tried to speak. It could be compared to the look that John had on face as he stared into the eyes of his best friend, whom he thought to be dead. Only this time it wasn't fueled so much by anger as it was guilt.

The young woman who caused the normally expressive Doctor Watson to stand back in silence was perched on one the window benches, leaning against the window pane to enjoy the lovely December evening. Her hair, a bright ginger color, was pulled up into a bun at the back of her head. She had on a light tan sweater dress – not unlike the color of John's favorite jumper –and black tights, though her feet remained bare. As she turned her head to stare back at John, he couldn't remember when she had been more beautiful.

"Hello John."

* * *

The ride back home was an uncomfortable one for John. In the hour or so that he had spent in Mycroft's London home – he figured that's what it was, at least – his mind had filtered through just about every emotion in which he was capable. As they had talked, his brain filled with information. He imagined that he was imitating Sherlock in this moment, or at least trying to as he picked out every detail he could and stored it away for analysis later. The talking had finished rather quickly. She hardly ever fought with John _before_ so she didn't know how to now, when she had read to. So they were left in silence. It was the silence that weighed so heavily on him.

_"We'd appreciate it if you'd keep this to yourself for now, John. We… wish to do this on our own time."_

He'd promised. Of course he had. He wasn't really in any position to disagree to her – their request. That didn't stop his mind however. He didn't understand why she just couldn't –.

John shuddered as he was hit with another wave of guilt. She'd forgiven him. Of course she had. He knew she would. They were family and family forgave. Maybe they weren't bound together by blood, but they were bound by something just as strong. They were bound by long nights running around London and tears caused by the naivety of Sherlock Holmes and burned breakfasts and warm drinks in chipped cups on rainy afternoons. By conversation and love and a deep sense of trust they placed in a very select few. Besides, she had missed him too much to be properly angry. More to the point, he wasn't her real target. And he was not to say a word until she was ready to handle it.

_"You'll wait for my text, yeah?"_

John didn't have the slightest idea about how they were going to place this, he really didn't. She was already crazy – and he meant that in the most loving way possible, he really did. And Mycroft bloody loved her. He'd give her anything she asked, do anything she wanted. It was surprising to them all the way Mycroft had taken to her when they had first met all those years ago. His fondness for her only ever grew, much to the displeasure of Sherlock. He highly disliked Mycroft "stealing his friends" vehemently fought their friendship. It occurred to John that Sherlock might have thought Mycroft had a romantic interest in her and that's his jealously flared more with her than him. But that wasn't really the case. John had figured that Mycroft looked to her as the sibling he never got to have. One that let him take care of them and who would do the same in return. John had figured that Mycroft, under all the _caring is not an advantage_ and hard-ass British government front he played, enjoyed being an older brother. And he was capable of sentiment, as much as it killed him. John figured that Sherlock and Mycroft weren't as different as they hoped to be.

'Oh, we're all in for a bit of hell,' John chuckled to himself as the car pulled to a stop. The women sitting across from him might have looked up from her Blackberry to stare at the man who, out of seemingly nowhere, laughed to himself, but he didn't stick around long enough to see. He was out through the car door as soon as the car stopped, only throwing the woman a quick goodbye over his shoulder before he slammed the door.

He'd already come up with a good excuse as to why Mycroft had wanted to see him, but Mary never asked. They spent a lovely evening together eating and drinking good wine. They sat cuddled together in front of the telly and talked. She really was lovely, his fiancé. And just before bed John checked his phone, but there were no new messages.

As he lay in bed later that night, Mary's hand in his as she slept dead to the world, he couldn't help but smile. She may be mad and betrayed, but she was home. And to John, that was enough. He had time now to make things right. And as Sherlock had said, they'd do everything to achieve it.

* * *

_"I'm sorry, so so sorry." He gripped the small ginger closer. Mycroft had made some excuse about going to call the car to take John home before slipping out the door not a moment ago. It was blatantly obvious he was giving the two a moment to say goodbye, but John felt almost grateful to him for the indiscretion. John knew it was more for Mycroft's own sake rather than his own, but still. He appreciated it none-the-less. The door had only just shut behind him when the young woman had bounded across the room into John's arms._

_ "It's ok John, really. It's fine. It's all fine." She rubbed her hand on his back in slow circles, hoping to soothe him. John knew the girl felt no ill will towards him anymore. They both knew it wasn't John that she was truly upset with. He was too short and his hair too light and flat to be the man who held what little anger she possessed. It changed nothing however, as he gripped her all the more tight. She fit snuggly in his arms, warm and bright and there. John had it all in this moment. Forgetting all bad feelings and mistakes, he had it all; a beautiful fiancé, a git of a best friend back from the dead and her. She was here and she was home. _


End file.
